


the lie in what's holy; the light in what's not

by saddletrampboyfriend



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saddletrampboyfriend/pseuds/saddletrampboyfriend
Summary: Takes place after the release of the Leviathans in season 7. full disclosure i conceptualized and wrote all of this drunk as fuck it is not revised.also based off it's torn by leonard cohen.im gay I'm allowed to do this  lmao I haven't written fanfic of any kind in well over a year idk wtfs going kn
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	the lie in what's holy; the light in what's not

Dean has a nightmare for the first time since Azazel was killed, and that’s really saying something. 

It’s just a week after the Leviathans let loose like dogs through the water that caught the blood of something, like amorphous, black sharks. On the bank of the river the fear was dizzying, there was no holding it back, worse with the final offering. His hands smelled like river water and sweat for days. 

He wakes up on the couch, wrapped in one of Bobby’s moth-eaten Pendleton blankets like he has on so many nights before. The T.V. in the corner still playing, but turned down low. He knows without looking around that Sam’s gonna be in the next room, maybe Bobby too. Reaching around himself knocks over an empty bottle of beer, it makes a hollow sound, and nicks an empty, plastic container of grocery store cherry pie, the metal fork wedged inside clattering to the floorboards. His flip phone nested in a heap of fabric, he grips it and flicks it open, nearly three A.M. Replacing it, he fumbles for the coat and pulls it closer, tucking it further underneath the couch.

A moment of weakness had brought it back with him one drunken night. Dragging himself out on the small dirt path to Baby, just to feel something secure again, collapsing into the driver's seat with his bad leg sticking out, head on the steering wheel, then on his knees, just feeling the Montana air ruffle his dirty hair - he’s spent so long on the couch inside, just waiting for his bones to stitch together again. At that angle, Dean can see the crumpled sliver of beige from under the side of the seat, he pulls it out in one go, it unfurls over his plastered knee and into the dirt, still damp at the center. The stench of the river and old sweat. 

Where the hell the rest went, he hasn’t allowed himself to wonder about. But he’s wondering now. Not a speck of red in all that black. The coat is clean and the only blood on it is older than that day. 

Rolling it up again and stuffing it under his arm when he came back inside didn’t work, and he knew he wouldn’t, but he kept his eyes down like he was focusing on moving with the crutch and hoped their backs were turned. Sam in the kitchen, the direction of his boots changing, but if Sam had an angel frolicking about in his head, Dean was allowed to spare a few thoughts to one of his own. It wouldn’t be the toughest shit either of them had realized about one another.

The scent of it kills him, he looks it over again, the bloody flecks over the chest, the last time he saw it on the right shoulders, bleeding black, feathers all ruffled up, the smile, the way it reverberated through his whole body when he was slammed into the wall in that sterile little room covered in blood and guts. Not his fondest memory. 

Before he can shove it down, he’s swung both legs off the couch, grabbing the bottle on the side table and gulping it down on instinct. Bobby never buys his brand, so he must be feeling really bad about whatever happened on the last hunt. Up on his feet, his bones creaking, he crosses the floor to the window, pushes the curtain aside to glance out, then undoes the locks, quick and silent, and flings open the front door. He’s in Montana and he’s not really. Outside is the night and the car and lines of trees, and the angel, of course, with blood still dripping from his right hand.

For a moment, he stands in the open door and looks at him, the drip from his hand down into the dirt, he can hear the dull sound. The sleeve stuck to his wrist. He walks to the door and Dean can see the wet prints behind him, his shoes are gone. How far he walked to get here, he can’t help wondering. How hard he fought. 

Night breeze rushes through them both, and his throat closes up, all he can do is step aside. Castiel hovering a moment, as if torn. 

The blood curves down, watery, into the beds of his nails, swirls in the steel basin of the sink before slipping away. Dean remembers the Leviathans for a second, but swallows that down too. His hands are cold, the heels broken and scratchy. He’s wavering beside the sink, so Dean steps back and grabs a kitchen chair, pulls it up behind him and presses down on his shoulder. It doesn’t occur to him until he snatches up the dirty towel bunched up beside the sink that he didn’t question a single thing, didn’t run a single ritual. 

Dean asks himself again where the body of Jimmy Novak went when the Leviathans left it. The plastic bottle of holy water beside the cutlery comes out, he unscrews the cap and cups the hand in his, bringing down the rim. 

“I’m sorry, I wish I still knew another way.” It runs through his fingers and up his arm. Nothing but a dull look. But still him, somehow still him, still all there, cut through with black tears made blacker in the dim moonlight through the curtains, crusted on his forehead, down his neck. He’s dampening the kitchen towel, smearing it with dish soap, tilting his head. 

The marks from the Leviathans and those earlier wounds rub off, he unbuttons his shirt, pushes up his sleeves, cleans his neck, his forearms. Bruises on his chin, scraped skin. He thinks about Sam, Bobby, is still listening hard for another sound in the house. Goes to his knees.

There’s a damp hand on his wrist and he touches the ankle in front of him, crusted with silt and river water, it travels to his shoulder and latches on. Every part of him is damp, and his tie is missing. He moves as if under it still, every slow and heavy as the new notches on his gun, as Dean’s guilt that he wasn’t able to help him, that he let him go. Hand on his thigh, thumbing off an escaping droplet. 

He tastes like salt, not of fresh water as he should, and Dean feels himself choke up under it, hears it too, the thump of Cas’ palm against the back of his head. Still stoic, still silent, still watching, but his hand shakes, somethings battered around by the river rocks, the shine’s off. something isn't all there. Deep down, Dean knows that, knows the vessel is gone, somehow he wrenched the coat from his shoulders before it went, somehow took control just enough for that final, imperfect offering. 

FIngers graze his knee, leaving a damp spot on the denim, he looks down and sees the hand spreading out, down against the kitchen chair between his thighs. His broken leg. The top of Cas’ head. Trying to process, it all swims before his eyes like phantoms, bumping into one another, muddying his mind. A hand on his stomach pushes him to stand, and he does, eyes now on his shoulder from the side, the groan of the kitchen chair being returned to its place, like the sound he made when their lips touched.

Dean follows him to the door.

In a sweat so cold he’s running his hands up and down his clothes to see they aren’t soaking wet, he wakes up back in the Montana cabin, the couch unfamiliar and smaller than Bobby’s, awkwardly twisted to accommodate his cast. Early morning. The T.V. is off. His mouth is dry. All very real and very deep sensations. The shock of it quickens his breath, and the memories of the dream rush back as he pulls himself back up. It felt just as real, a frightening concept. He swings himself off the couch and is halfway to the kitchen before he notices the absence of pain in his leg, just the heavy exoskeleton, and the weight of the trenchcoat draped around his shoulders.


End file.
